


New Religion

by Hobash



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Peter, M/M, Top Chris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobash/pseuds/Hobash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris visits Peter after the latter comes back to life</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Religion

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm sorry if there are any contradictions between this fic and the canon plot line. (Excluding the obvious contradiction of this fic containing raging porn between two characters whom I can't remember ever even having a conversation in the show).

He’s expecting it when Chris shows up at his door because, when it comes right down to it, they’ve both only ever been clichés.

Chris has always been the Hero and Peter has always been the Big Bad Wolf (now come back to life through less-than-savory means) and so it’s almost disappointingly predictable when they find themselves standing on opposite sides of a doorway, Chris awash in self-righteous morality and a tightly locked jaw and Peter leaning lazily against the door jam, not even bothering to feign surprise as he raises his eyebrows and adopts his typical _who me?_ expression.

“You’re alive.”

The past month has yielded more variations of this sentence than Peter really has patience for, especially considering that despite subtle differences in wording (Stiles: “What the actual _fuck_ , dude?”), it’s always framed as an accusation. _Why_ are you alive? _How_ are you alive? Which isn’t to say that Peter expected to be pat on the back by the people he manipulated and used for his own purposes, but a little recognition for his efforts wouldn’t go astray. Sacrificial resurrections don’t just _happen._

Chris says _alive_ like he still doesn’t quite believe it, despite the facial hair-sporting evidence standing directly in front of him. His eyes flit over Peter’s body, over joints and muscle, trying to find the cracks, like he expects Peter to dissolve in front of him back into the pile of charred dust they both left behind in the woods.

“I am.”

Somehow, maybe because they’re both pretending like this isn’t as weird as it actually is, they end up inside, squared off across what passes for Derek’s living room. Peter’s been living in the loft for weeks, but the space still feels hard and uninviting, like the building itself refuses to yield to his presence, to acknowledge him as anything other than a foreign body. He doesn’t know if it’s because of Derek’s lack of interior decorating savvy---there are only about ten pieces of furniture in the entire loft, at least four of which are just converted cinder blocks---or because Peter understands, innately, that he’s not really welcome. That the only reason Derek allows him within fifty feet of himself or Stiles (if his nephew thinks Peter missed the arousal that clings to the two of them, he’s stupider than Peter ever gave him credit for) or Scott or _any_ of them is because a wild animal on a leash is better than a wild animal off of one.

Chris isn’t afraid. He’s uncomfortable and wary, Peter would guess, judging by rigid line of his shoulders and the way he leaves his hands purposefully unencumbered at his sides (ready, at a moment’s notice, to grab the gun that Peter knows is on his belt), but his heart, which Peter can hear from across the room, beats in a steady rhythm. It’s familiar. Chris has never been afraid of him.

Peter offers him a beer, which he declines, and a whiskey, which he accepts. They stare back at each other, Peter splayed out on the couch, arms thrown wide over the back of it, and Chris standing in front of him, the ice in his drink clinking softly every time he swirls the liquid.

“How did you do it?”

Peter lets out a put-upon sigh, like why can’t everyone just let his resurrection _go_ , and lets his head flop lazily to the side, staring up at Chris.

“A little blood, a little magic,” he offers in a bored voice, shrugging. “The usual.”

Chris blows a huff of air through his nose which may be laughter or may be disgust (amazing, how often Peter is faced with those two alternatives) and shakes his head. He raises the glass in of whiskey to his mouth and takes a sip, wincing as it goes down. Peter watches the bob of his throat.

“Why are you here, Chris?” he asks after a moment. He doesn’t bother to ask how Chris knew where he was or how he knew the exact moment when Derek would be out of the house on “pack business” which Peter was pointedly excluded from. When it comes down to it, Chris and Peter are like reflections in a mirror: polar opposites, yet eerily similar, almost mistakable for one another. They both know how to get what they want.

Chris doesn’t respond, just downs the remainder of his whiskey. The leather of his jacket sleeve crinkles audibly with the movement and something stirs low in Peter’s gut, a fierce, primal want. He smirks to cover it up and leans forward on the couch, elbows resting on his knees.

“Does dad know about this little excursion?” he asks innocently, feeling the edges of his mouth curl when Chris’ eyes immediately lock back onto him. Too easy. His forever Achilles’ heel.

He pushes himself off the couch and takes a few steps closer to Chris. He doesn’t retreat, which Peter gives him credit for (with Scott, for example, Peter often feels like a polarized magnet; he goes left, Scott goes right, he steps forward, Scott steps back), but he doesn’t look away from him either, the act of breaking eye contact more trust than Chris is willing to extend.

“Does he know you’re out after dark? Running with wolves?”

Chris’ jaw clenches. This close, less than three feet away, Peter is able to get a feel for his stature. Peter may be thicker, owing to a lot of free time spent doing pushups and a sudden affinity for tight shirts, but Chris is taller. He has to tilt his head slightly to look at him and again feels the heated lurch in his stomach.

“I came on my own.”

In a surprising move, Chris steps forward, closing the distance between them even further until he’s looming over Peter. It’s not _quite_ a show of dominance, but it’s not harmless, either. It’s a different kind of threat than what Peter is used to, one that he could understand even without extra-sensory assistance.

“I needed to see,” Chris continues quietly.

It takes him two attempts, the first one an aborted, start-stop twitch, but then Chris’ hand is stretching out and gripping Peter’s shoulder. He lets out a quiet breath and digs his fingers in, feeling the solidity of the man beneath them like he still doesn’t trust it. His eyes trace over Peter’s torso and seconds later, his hand follows their path, palm skating over Peter’s chest and down his stomach, fingers tripping over the lines of his abs. Chris’ thumb, calloused and rough, snags on the thin material of Peter’s shirt and Peter takes in a soft breath.

Chris’ eyes dart up at the sound, but he doesn’t remove his hand, holds it pressed against Peter’s skin with a gentle force.

“I needed to know.”

Peter isn’t really big on introspection (a murder or two down and he’s given up on questions like “ _Am I a good person_?”), so he doesn’t stop to think about why he does it. Maybe he’s still trying to prove to Chris---or himself---that he’s alive or maybe he’s trying to prove that resurrection and redemption are close enough that they can pretend that they’re the same thing. Or maybe, in the end, he’ll always just be Peter, taking what he wants despite the body count it leaves behind.

There’s stubble on Chris’ chin that wasn’t there in high school. It scratches over Peter’s face when he slides their lips together, kissing Chris even as the man remains immobile under him. He blows out a harsh breath through his nose, frustrated, and becomes more insistent, sliding his hands up Chris’ chest, pressing his lips that much harder in an attempt to provoke a response. Chris has his confirmation, Peter needs his.

Suddenly, there are large hands on Peter’s hips, gripping skin roughly through the fabric, and Chris’s mouth opens up underneath him, tongue sliding in between the crease of Peter’s lips, returning his movements. Peter groans, pressing himself tighter to the man, as Chris bites and licks at his mouth, sucking on his lower lip, dull teeth nipping at the tender skin. They might as well be kids again, fumbling under bleachers and against trees, backpacks thrown to the side with the urgency of it all. Playing with fire and not realizing until later, years later, that the reason they did was more than just the lure of flame.  

They break apart, both of their mouths bloated and pink, and Chris stares back at Peter in question, his chest rising and falling quickly beneath his jacket. It takes less than a minute of fumbling in what passes for Derek’s bathroom to produce lube and a condom and he’s back in front of Chris, who pushes him down onto the couch, climbing on top of him and beginning to fumble at the buttons of Peter’s jeans.

His jeans and his briefs are yanked down in one quick tug, baring him to the room. Chris, still fully clothed, having not even bothered to shrug out of his jacket, stares down at him, his eyes fixed on Peter’s cock where it curves upwards toward his stomach.

Peter realizes he’s shaking, his stomach undulating in small spasms, and Chris must realize it, too. With his palm, he pushes Peter’s shirt up, exposing the skin of his stomach and setting his hand over it, steadying him. Peter laughs without meaning to, the sound bubbling out of him in a sharp burst, because it’s just so _Chris_. He’s a father now, Peter knows, but even before he donned the official title, he was always nurturing, always caring.

Still holding him grounded, Chris spits into his palm and wraps his hand around Peter’s cock. The sudden sensation punches a shocked gasp out of Peter and he arches beneath the hand Chris has on him. Chris pumps him slowly, working him up in patient, controlled pulls until Peter is panting and nearly blind with it, squirming beneath him, hands clawing into the leather of the couch under him.

“I never,” he pants as Chris swirls his thumb over the head of him, “took you for the teasing type, Chris.”

Chris doesn’t respond and Peter doesn’t expect him to. Releasing Peter’s cock, he sits back and reaches for the lube on the coffee table beside him, popping the cap off. Peter closes his eyes, letting his head thunk back against the couch cushion, and only stutters slightly when a slick finger traces the rim of his hole.

“Okay?” Chris’ voice is rough but earnest and as he speaks, he closes a hand around Peter’s leaking cock again, stroking him even as he continues rubbing over his entrance.

“Keep going,” Peter grounds out and almost instantly, the finger is breaching him, pushing in entirely before being pulled back out.

Peter spreads his legs further and Chris kneels between them, always keeping one hand on Peter’s cock to jack him off through the burn of the stretch as he adds a second finger and then a third, curling them up and stroking over the spot inside of Peter that makes him writhe and grunt, hands fisting in the material of Chris’ jacket.

“Come on,” he breathes out when Chris is easily pushing three fingers inside of him, watching them as they enter and leave Peter’s body. “Come on, fuck me.”

“Fuck,” Chris grits out harshly, with drawing his fingers.

He doesn’t even remove his pants entirely, just unzips them and pushes them to his thighs, tearing open the condom and lining himself up at Peter’s stretched hole. With the head of his cock, he traces over it slowly, watching Peter’s face.

“ _Tease_ ,” Peter accuses again.

Chris actually laughs at that, his face splitting widely in a grin that Peter remembers, despite the addition of new lines and creases around his eyes. Placing two hands on either side of Peter’s head, he pushes into him, letting out a shaky exhale as he does so. Peter winces at the burn of it (even being a werewolf and being stretched doesn’t take the sting out of that initial push) but then Chris is bending over him, his lips finding Peter’s as he pulls his hips back and slams them in, working him through the pain.

They set up a rhythm that has the couch scraping across the old wood of Derek’s loft. Chris hooks an arm under Peter’s knee, folding him almost entirely in half as he continues thrusting his hips. The change in position allows him deeper and Peter’s mouth opens on a silent cry as sensation shoots through his body with every push of Chris’ cock inside of him. He drops his head back, baring his throat, and Chris latches onto it, sucking a mark that they’ll both be able to deny in ten minutes.

“There you go,” he breathes against Peter’s skin. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the apartment and Peter unthinkingly reaches down to wrap a hand around his erection, jacking it frantically as Chris encourages him with soft, filthy words muttered into his jaw. “Come on, Peter. Come on. Let me see you come, sweetheart.”

Peter resents the term of endearment as much as he craves it. He whines, sounding feral even to his own ears, and Chris’ movements increase, becoming frantic and uncontrolled. In seconds, he tenses above Peter, groaning aloud, and then he’s coming, hips twitching against the abused, reddened skin of Peter’s ass.

The warmth of Chris’ come, which Peter can feel even through the condom, combined with the sensation of feeling so fucking _full_ , full of Chris, _Chris_ , is enough. He comes with a gasping cry, jerking himself as wet lines spill onto his chest, a few smearing on Chris’ clothing where he leans over him.

Peter remembers how this particular moment felt when they were teenagers, after the come had dried and they were forced to face their actions. He remembers pushing off of each other, clothes tugged up and on, body parts tucked away, hasty clean up jobs.

They’re men now; when Chris lifts himself off of Peter on the couch, his knees crack. The only people they have to answer to is themselves.

The thought doesn't comfort them like they imagined it would when they were boys. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your opinions in the comments! Thanks for reading!


End file.
